


Retaliation

by aurora_australis



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 07:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15990533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis
Summary: When it came to teasing, Phryne Fisher gave as good as she got. The trouble was, she so rarely actuallygot. She was far more likely to be the teaser than the teasee. But that was about to change. Enter Jack Robinson, man with a plan.





	Retaliation

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, this is my first “M” work. Maybe more “M adjacent”? But there's no category for that, so... Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. I’ll be over in the corner, covering my eyes and hiding. ;-)
> 
> Many thanks to Sarahtoo for the beta read and for encouraging me to write this in the first place.

“I’m sure I have it right here, Mrs. Weatherby, just one moment.”

Jack looked up from his recipe book to smile reassuringly at the older woman currently seated at his kitchen table. She’d been after him for months for his peach cobbler recipe, but he had been distracted by one thing or another - usually wearing lipstick and heels - and had not yet shared it. So today, with peach season almost over, she’d stopped by unannounced to ask for it one more time. Jack, his manners firmly in place even if hers were currently somewhat questionable, had invited her in and offered her some tea while he wrote it down. Apparently afraid he’d scamper out of his own kitchen, she’d followed him in and taken a seat to wait. Her church bake sale was coming up next week and she was playing to win. 

Jack flipped through the book looking for the correct page. Even though he almost knew it by heart, he felt it best to double check. That last thing he needed was Mrs. Weatherby’s wrath - he knew seasoned crims who would be afraid of her.

As the pages flipped by, something fell out of the book and floated to the floor. Mrs. Weatherby and Jack both reached down to grab it, but Jack was slightly closer and considerably more agile. He picked it up and, curious, took a look to see what it was. He immediately regretted his decision. Jack sucked in a quick breath and shoved the sheet back in the book.

“Was that it?” Mrs. Weatherby asked.

“Uh, no, no,” Jack said, coughing slightly on the last word. “That was something else. Oh, here we go!”

He quickly copied down the recipe for her, turning his back and writing on the counter to keep her from being tempted to examine the book’s contents. He could feel his ears burning the entire time and hoped she was too focused on the tea to notice. Then he politely collected her cup and escorted her to the front door. 

As she was leaving, she turned in the frame.

“Thank you again, Inspector. I do hope you’ll be able to stop by the bake sale next week. All the proceeds are going to a worthy cause, you know.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jack assured her, wishing right then that his manners were a little less in place and that he could just close the door in her face. “But sometimes duty calls.”

“Yes, yes, of course. You do keep us safe. Well, I best be off. Need to work out any wrinkles in this before the big day.”

“Absolutely. Goodbye, Mrs. Weatherby.”

And with that he did close the door, though he was fairly certain she was facing out when he did it. If not… well he couldn’t really be bothered to care just then. He needed to be alone.

Taking a deep breath, he walked back to the kitchen and picked up the recipe book once more. This time he deliberately turned to the interloping piece of paper and removed it, raking his eyes over the image before him, despite having seen it several times by now.

Photograph Number Three.

He dropped to his chair and sighed. That had been close. He stared at the photo for a moment then rose and walked to his bedroom to put it with the rest, remembering the entire time how this was all his fault.

It had started a couple months ago. Phryne and he had been romantically involved for almost a year by then and he was starting to feel confident. Secure. Stupid.

That’s when it had happened. She’d stopped by the station one night, late enough that he should have already left, but early enough that there were still people milling about, dressed in one of her racier dancing outfits. She’d hopped up on his desk and started chatting, casually lifting her skirt ever so much higher to try and get a reaction out of him. 

He did not react. 

Not a stutter or sigh. Didn’t even ask her to remove herself. He just kept doing his paperwork and responding as appropriate to her questions. Finally she dropped the skirt back into place and leaned back on the desk with a huff.

“Really, Jack, you’re being no fun at all tonight.”

He finally put down his pen.

“I’m being as fun as the setting dictates, Miss Fisher. I’m just immune.”

“Immune?” she said, with a dangerous arch of her eyebrow.

“Not to you,” he said softly and the eyebrow lowered to a more curious angle. “Never to you, love. Just to your… tricks.”

“My tricks?” she asked. “And what, pray tell, are those?”

“Oh you know. The tricks, the, the little things you like to do to get a rise out of me in public. You forget, I had a year of denying myself completely and now a year of close exposure. At this point, I can maintain my composure for as long as I need to…” and behind the desk, where no one could see, he ran his hand around her ankle and up her silk covered calf, “until we’re alone and I don’t need to. Nor,” he continued, “would I ever want to.”

“But you’re immune now. Here.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“Well…”

“You sound proud of yourself.”

He shrugged in silent agreement and smiled at her. She smiled back, all teeth and intention, and Jack suddenly felt like he had as a kid, taunting the lion at the Melbourne Zoo until it had abruptly lunged at the fence and he’d quickly realized his hubris.

She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Beware, darling, it goeth before the fall.”

Then she’d hopped off the desk, given him a chaste kiss on the cheek, and told him she’d see him at Wardlow later.

He had been prepared that night for a full assault on his person upon entering her home, but there was nothing. Just whisky and conversation and Jack losing his composure as promised. 

He was on high alert for several days afterward as well, but everything seemed normal. Well, as normal as life ever was with Phryne Fisher. Finally he convinced himself that he had been imagining that look in her eye, that the lioness was not on the hunt. He was confident of it in fact. Secure. 

Stupid.

About a week after the incident in his office, he’d been called out to a crime scene in St. Kilda after initial inquiries had already begun because apparently this victim warranted higher than a Senior Sergeant on the case. When he arrived, he was unsurprised to see the Hispano already parked outside. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He loved working with her. He never called her in unless it was warranted, but when it happened organically, well, those invariably turned out to be his favorite cases. 

He sent Hugh in ahead and examined the broken window on the side of the house for a moment before going inside himself. 

“Are my crime scene photos here yet?” Jack asked his Senior Constable. 

“Uh yes, sir. Well no, sir. That is, uh…”

“Well out with it, man.”

“Miss Fisher has them, sir. She’s waiting for you. In the library.”

“Thank you, Constable.”

Jack shook his head, wondering why that had been so hard, and continued into the library.

The victim was long gone, but the crime scene was still intact. When he arrived in the room she looked up from the desk and smiled at him.

“Hello, Jack!”

“Miss Fisher. Are you who I should thank for my newest assignment?”

“Sorry, Jack, not me, though I’m happy as always for your assistance.”

“Hmph,” he grunted in reply, trying to look dour and unamused. It was difficult to do around her, but he’d had practice. “So what can you tell me?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Only just arrived myself. The victim's sister is friends with Aunt Prudence… which probably also explains your presence, come to think of it.”

Jack rolled his eyes and nodded resignedly in response.

“It was definitely meant to look like a robbery, but I think that’s just a ruse. Look at the window,” she suggested.

“I already examined it outside,” he said. “Broken from the inside.”

She smiled at him brightly and came over to run her hands down his lapels simply because she could. “You see… such good assistance.”

He just shook his head and, after making sure they were still alone, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Which I will be more than happy to provide you this evening,” he said quietly. “But right now….”

“Yes, yes, duty calls. I’m actually on my way out. I have a lead to follow, but I’ll call you if it turns into something. Goodbye, darling.” Then she turned and walked towards the door.

“Miss Fisher?” She stopped at his words and turned to look at him. “My crime scene photos?”

“Oh yes. On the desk, Jack. Shall I send Hugh in on my way out?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He turned toward the desk and picked up the folder. He examined the first couple, looking around the room to get his bearings. Lifting the third photo in the pile up absentmindedly, he brought it in front of his face to examine and then nearly fell over.

It was _her_. 

She was wearing a brassiere, French knickers, black stockings and garters. And absolutely nothing else.

“You alright, sir?”

Jack quickly shoved the photo back onto the pile and slammed the folder closed. “What? Oh, yes, yes, Constable, fine.” Jack coughed a few times and held the folder in front of him.

“You just look a little red. Is it too warm in here? Can I take your coat?”

“NO! Uh, no. No, my coat is good... fine! My coat is _fine_. I think I’ll just go and locate some water. Be back in a moment, Collins.”

And then Jack beat a hasty retreat for the washroom, still holding the stack of crime scene photos.

Once there he splashed some water on his face and tried to calm down. It wasn’t the image itself, of course. Well, it wasn’t _only_ the image. After all, he’d seen her in far less. It was the placement. Amongst crime scene photos? At a _crime scene_? It was daring and brash and irreverent and… Phryne. It was Phryne.

And he was not immune.

He cupped his hands and took a sip of water. Waited for his pulse to stop racing and returned to the library to continue his investigation, Phryne's photo tucked in his suit coat pocket for safe keeping.

When he arrived at Wardlow that night he showed her the photo, and she claimed to be completely surprised by its appearance. She swore she had no idea how it ended up with his crime scene photos. But really, was it such a problem? After all, he was immune.

He narrowed his eyes and nodded his head, not at all ready to admit defeat.

A few days later he was in his office, talking to one of his Sergeants, when he realized he needed a pen to sign the man’s requisition form. He opened his top desk drawer and there it was. 

_Her_.

In this one she was wearing one of her silk robes and a silver camisole. He could see the top of one her black stockings and just a peek of her knickers. He groaned, as silently as he could, and asked his Sergeant to come back later that afternoon for the form.

Then he closed his door and examined the photo.

She was objectively wearing much more in it than the one she’d left in the crime scene photos, but this one was, if anything, more affecting than that one had been. It took him a moment to figure out why. The robe! _That_ robe. She often wore it after they made love, something to ward off the chill as her body cooled. She’d put it on and then float back to bed and wrap herself around him, or drape herself across him, and he’d feel the silk of the robe and the silk of her skin and think in that moment that perhaps there wasn’t a luckier bugger on the planet than he.

He wasn’t quite feeling that way now. 

He felt warm, and uncomfortable, and like he needed a stiff drink. He glanced at the clock. Another two hours in his shift. He shoved the photo back into the drawer and slammed it shut. In two hours, she had a lot of explaining to do.

He’d barged into Wardlow and showed her the photo, demanding an explanation. She’d calmly stated that she’d clearly misplaced several - _oh god, several?_ \- of the photographs from her aborted session with Frederick Burn about town, and wasn’t it good of him to locate them for her. Of course, if he were too affected, and not immune as he claimed, she’d be sure to do a better job of finding and retrieving them herself.

And so the game parameters were set, the forfeit terms clear: admit he was not immune, and the photos stopped. Otherwise…. game play would continue. 

Jack smiled tightly, put the photo back in his pocket, and poured himself a whisky.

_Several???_

In the end, several had turned out to be three, but she had clearly made multiple copies of each. Photograph Number Two as he called it (because he did so love structure and so he labeled them in the order that they were clearly taken) made its first appearance in the glove box of his car as he was heading to his sister’s house for dinner, and it turned out to be the one that had the greatest effect on him. He didn’t think she knew, certainly that photograph didn’t appear any more frequently than the other two, so thank heaven for small mercies. He realized quickly that it was because Photograph Number Two reminded him so much of their first night together. 

The trip from parlour to boudoir that evening had been fairly frenzied - neither caring to wait anymore after so much time apart - and was somewhat of a blur, but at some point, dress gone but underthings still in place, she’d stopped and just _looked_ at him. She had been clad in nearly an identical ensemble to Photograph Number Two - silver silk camisole, matching French knickers, black stockings - and her expression had been so full of love and desire and _joy_ , he’d committed the memory to heart. And now, every time he saw that photo, he was right back there, in that moment, about to make love to Phryne Fisher for the first time. 

Needless to say that was not a state he needed to be in out in public.

That first time with Photograph Number Two he had needed several long minutes to calm himself in the car before being once again fit for company. It had ultimately made him late for dinner, earning his sister’s ire in the process. When he’d admonished Phryne for it later that night, she had smiled, shrugged unapologetically, and asked whether he had brought any of Samantha’s lamington back for her. 

And so it continued. He had a collection of about a dozen of the photos now, multiple copies of each of the three unique images. He’d found them in some incredibly creative places over the last several weeks, he had to give her that. And to her credit, she never left them anywhere that might get him in trouble with his superiors. But everywhere else was fair game. 

In his home tonight, he added the photo from the recipe book to his growing stash. He stared at the photos again, his pulse racing slightly and his breathing a little uneven, and really _looked_ at her. In each of the photos her body was seductive, because her body was always seductive, but her face… her face wasn’t flirty or sensuous, it didn’t scream come hither. It was _inquisitive_. Questioning. Thoughtful. She was in investigative mode and damn if that didn’t work twice as well on him as anything else possibly could. 

God, he loved that woman so much. And he realized, with far more pleasure than he thought he’d have at the insight, that he would never be immune to any part of her.

But he was still not prepared to admit defeat.

Putting the photographs away, he walked back to his kitchen and began to make supper, considering why that was. And he decided it was the inequity in the game.

Phryne gave as good as she got, but she so rarely actually _got_. She was much more likely to be the teaser than the teasee and Jack reckoned it was high time that changed; it was time to give as good as _he_ got. He also realized he’s been reading quite a bit of Zane Grey of late if words like “reckoned” were creeping into his vocabulary. Chuckling, he finished cleaning up dinner and went to his library to find a different book to read before bed, considering the larger problem at hand - the problem, of course being _how_. 

Risqué photos of himself were, of course, out of the question. If they were ever found by anyone, he’d lose his position and possibly wind up in jail. Plus he couldn’t imagine anything he might be wearing or not wearing that would affect Phryne the way those photos of her affected him. No, he needed to be creative. He idly persuaded the books on his shelf and was suddenly struck by an idea. Half of an idea anyway and the rest was rapidly forming in his mind. As he continued plotting, Jack’s smile became wider, and by the time he had a full plan he rather thought he might resemble the Cheshire Cat from _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_. The best part was that the groundwork was already laid, so to speak, he would just need to build upon it. _Easily and delightfully done_ , he thought, choosing five or six books and heading into his bedroom to peruse them. Apologies to Mr. Grey - some things were just more important. 

\---------------------

Phryne yawned as she entered her kitchen, awake but not yet alert. It had been a long night, a charity ball followed by a more personal dance with her Inspector, and she would have liked to have slept in a bit more, but Jack had left early and inadvertently woken her up. No matter, she had things to do today anyway. She was delighted to find both Mr. Butler and Dot in the kitchen when she arrived.

“Good morning, Dot, Mr. B!”

“Good morning, miss,” Mr. Butler responded, pouring her a cup of coffee and handing her her toast.

“Good morning, miss! I know I’m early, but I’m so excited to interview our client today - a real movie star!”

“I think you might be overinflating his box office appeal, Dot, but I’m glad you’re enthusiastic.” She smiled at her friend. “Just let me finish my coffee.”

As she took her first sip, Mr. Butler turned to hand Phryne a note. “The Inspector left this for you, miss.”

“Really?” She took the note and opened it quickly, delighted at the prospect of whatever she would find inside.

> You missed my morning greeting, but be assured it did occur. 
> 
> _He kissed—the last of many doubled kisses—_  
>  _This orient pearl._

Her hand flew up to her neck of its own accord and it took her a moment to remember that she wasn’t currently wearing a necklace. She had been, though. Last night. A pearl necklace with a loose fastening that Jack had unclasped slowly while murmuring those very words. And she’d been right all those months ago - it really was so much better when he did it with his teeth.

“Are you feeling alright, miss?”

“What?” Phryne asked. She had forgotten for a moment that she wasn’t alone.

“You look a little flushed. Do you think you might be coming down with something?”

“Oh. No. I’m fine. I’ll… just go get ready. Be back in a moment.” Phryne stood and walked out of the kitchen. A moment later she popped back in and grabbed the note. “On second thought, give me about 15 minutes, would you, Dot?”

\---------------------

It wasn’t until the third note that Phryne realized what was going on. Realized that Jack wasn’t just being sweet. Realized he was playing to win.

The whole thing had started out rather innocently - well as innocently as anything between them ever actually was. Murmured poems as he kissed her neck, sonnets against the skin of her shoulder. Words and phrases that had long conjured her in his mind and so it seemed natural to him now to speak them as he adored her. The first time he’d done it with purpose, his attentions were decidedly lower. How he’d managed to recite that Antony and Cleopatra quote again when his tongue was so obviously occupied, she’d never know. But once she caught her breath, Phryne had laughed and said if he was still hungry, he was welcome to go back for seconds. 

She did not regret her suggestion.

And so he had continued. Jack loved poetry and literature, particularly Shakespeare, and he would often recite it to her when they were intimate, especially after he’d discovered how affected she was by his gorgeous voice. Every part of Jack was gorgeous, of course, but his voice was such a magnificent extension of him. She felt it in every part of her and it made her feel incredibly close to him. 

And now he was using it to retaliate.

She had been having tea with her aunt, some gathering or other of society types, and she had reached into her handbag for a card when she found that third note. 

> _I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;_  
>  _Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:_  
>  _Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,_  
>  _Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie._

There was nothing sweet about that note. Nothing sweet about the low, shaky tone with which he’d recited those words, the intensity of his gaze as she’d strayed lower and lower and -

“Phryne my dear, whatever is the matter?”

“What?”

“You’re a million miles away, my girl,” Prudence admonished her niece. Then she leaned in to speak quietly. “And wherever you are it must be very warm because you’re _sweating_.”

“Actually, Aunt P, I’m not feeling at all well. Would you mind terribly if I ducked out a bit early?”

“Of course, my dear, do feel better. I hope you’re able to nip whatever it is in the bud.”

“So do I, Aunt P, so do I.”

\---------------------

“You smug bastard!” she said, storming into his office and slamming the door closed behind her.

“Good afternoon to you too, Miss Fisher,” he replied dryly, putting down his pen and looking up with an expression of mock surprise. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You’ve been leaving me notes,” she accused.

“I have. Small tokens of my affection.”

“Oh what rot. You’ve been trying to prove I’m not immune either.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if I did… would you be prepared to call a draw?” he asked.

“I would not. I just came by to let you know two things. One, I’m on to you, Inspector,” she said, walking back to the door.

“And the second?” 

“I just visited my friend Ethel. The photographer? I needed to make some more prints.” She leveled her eyes at him. “I’m so looking forward to sharing them with you.”

\---------------------

And so it went for several more weeks.

He found Photograph Number One in an arrest report and forgot why he had requested it.

She found a note in the boot of the Hispano and dropped her shopping.

He found Photograph Number Three in his secret stash at the station and choked on a biscuit.

She found a note in her afternoon mail...

> _A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady!_

...and breathlessly fingered the scarf she had wrapped around her neck that morning to hide the evidence.

Back and forth, back and forth. One afternoon she was reading a novel and absentmindedly plotting her next move in their game when a note fell out of the pages. This one was longer than usual and held more emotional weight than sense memory.

> _My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;_  
>  _Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;_  
>  _If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;_  
>  _If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head._  
>  _I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,_  
>  _But no such roses see I in her cheeks;_  
>  _And in some perfumes is there more delight_  
>  _Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks._  
>  _I love to hear her speak, yet well I know_  
>  _That music hath a far more pleasing sound;_  
>  _I grant I never saw a goddess go;_  
>  _My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:_
> 
> _And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare_  
>  _As any she belied with false compare._

Reading it, she smiled in spite of herself. He’d recited that to her the night he’d first told her he loved her. Led her to bed, undressed her, worshiped her, all the while reciting that sonnet. Trusted that she would understand. That he loved her body, because it was _her_ body. That she wasn’t perfect and he loved that too. Only Jack Robinson would choose that particular sonnet to make her feel _more_ adored.

Damned wonderful man.

\---------------------

Back and forth, back and forth. Phryne was torn; she slightly resented the Pavlovian response he seemed to have created in her, while simultaneously being incredibly proud of the terrible influence she had clearly been on him. But it was leading to some awkward situations.

“I was at my solicitor’s!” she fumed at him one night, tossing the note in his general direction as he looked up from his reading. He picked it up and read it.

> _I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thine eyes._

Oh. Yes. That one. Good rhythm. One could really grind through on the downbeat. He’d used _that_ to its best advantage on several occasions. He smiled, and tilted his head in silent question. _Draw, my love?_

She narrowed her eyes, knocked back the last of the whisky in his glass, and then slowly removed her dress - leaving her in just her silk camisole, French knickers, and black stockings.

Oh, so she _did_ know.

Then she turned and headed for his bedroom, without another look in his direction.

He waited approximately four seconds before following.

\---------------------

For all his grumblings, Jack was enjoying their game. But he was also no closer to the draw he’d been looking for originally or the win he’d been secretly hoping for of late.

He needed to do something big.

The opportunity presented itself a week later at a charity committee luncheon. Not the sort of thing Jack usually attended, but he was prepared. He was a tactician after all, a skill that had served him well on the battlefield and throughout his career. During a recent supper with her aunt, Phryne had excused herself for several minutes to make a telephone call. Jack had taken the opportunity not just to casually ask Mrs. Stanley questions about the upcoming luncheon’s agenda, but to secure an invitation at the same time. Of course, he’d presented it to Phryne as an obligation, and she’d patted his knee and smiled sympathetically and all the while he’d tried desperately to hid his glee.

This would be his pièce de résistance.

The luncheon was held at Prudence Stanley’s home on a Thursday afternoon. It was a committee meeting for the Women’s Hospital to plan their next fundraising event. Phryne was in attendance, obviously, as were her aunt and Dr. MacMillan. Jack sat next to Phryne, enjoying his food and waiting for his cue. It came just after dessert.

“Yes, but don’t you think we need some other form of entertainment?” Prudence asked the room, in a tone that strongly implied they had better. “Last year’s event was so dull that half the attendees left before the auction was even over.”

“But what?” asked an older woman further down the table. “We don’t have a stage or time in the schedule. And the theme is “Moments in History” - do you suggest we, what, have performers act them out?”

Jack coughed and all eyes turned to him.

“If I may, Mrs. Stanley, I have an idea.”

“By all means, Inspector, please share,” Prudence swept her hand in front of her, indicating he had the floor.

“I’m new to this, of course, but if you’re looking for dramatic readings of historical events, you can’t go past Shakespeare.”

“I don’t think we have time for Shakespeare,” Phryne said with a tight smile. She knew he was planning something, she just didn’t know what.

“Not a full play, certainly,” Jack agreed. “But a select few monologues throughout the evening? I believe the Bard’s words will help keep people in the room and bidding all night, which is your intention, correct?”

“Yes, but _I_ believe it’s more difficult than you realize.”

“I’d be happy to demonstrate, if that would help.”

Phryne glared at him. “I don’t think -”

“Oh, Inspector, I think we’d all enjoy that,” Mac chimed in. “I know I would.”

Phryne turned to her oldest friend with the dirtiest look she could muster. “Traitor,” she whispered. Mac just shrugged her shoulders innocently in response, put her chin in her hands, and turned her attention back to Jack.

Jack nodded to the doctor, the barest hint of a smile hiding at the corners of his lips, and stood, clearing his throat and addressing the room in general, and Phryne in particular.

> “Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 
> 
> Her infinite variety. Other women cloy 
> 
> The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry 
> 
> Where most she satisfies.” 

Phryne’s hand involuntarily spasmed and her fork dropped to her plate, ringing loudly across the now silent room. Her mouth was slightly agape and her pupils were blown wide.

Jack’s eyes were on her, challenging and intense, and she was staring right back.

“Are you quite alright, Doctor?” Prudence asked Mac quietly as they were seated next to each other.

“What? Yes. Why?” Mac asked, reluctantly looking away from her best friend’s stunned expression.

“You’re… _grinning_.” Prudence was quite sure she’d never seen the good doctor do that before and it was slightly disconcerting.

“I suppose I just love Shakespeare,” Mac answered, returning her gaze to the battle of wills between her two friends.

“Hmph,” Prudence replied, certain she was missing something but not interested enough to pursue it further. “Excellent example, Inspector Robinson. A good suggestion and one the committee will definitely consider. And now I believe my niece has a report on our current donation list. Phryne?”

Next to her aunt, Phryne picked up her notes, gripping them tightly, and stood as Jack sat next to her. She took a deep breath and presented her report, her knuckles white, but otherwise no outward trace of her current predicament. Jack had to concede that it was an impressive performance.

When she was done, she sat back down and picked up her fork again, strongly considering just stabbing him. His hand stroking her thigh under the table convinced her to refrain. For now.

He leaned in to whisper in her ear as someone further down the table began listing local businesses who had purchased tables to the event.

“Are you ready to admit defeat yet, Miss Fisher?”

She whispered right back.

“Not on your life, Inspector. I’m afraid all you’ve done today is make a tactical error.”

“Oh?” he asked.

“Mmmm,” she said, turning to look him in the eye. “I’ve posed for some new photographs, Jack.”

She smiled at him, all challenge and adoration, and Jack suddenly felt like he had as a teenager on his bicycle, right before the starter pistol went off, when he was filled with anticipation and adrenaline, the thrill of the competition and the joy of the chase, and he smiled right back.

“And I’ve read some new books, Miss Fisher.”

Game. On.

**Author's Note:**

> Jack quotes, in order, Shakespeare's _Antony and Cleopatra, Venus and Adonis, Love’s Labour’s Lost, Sonnet 130, Much Ado About Nothing,_ and _Antony and Cleopatra_ again. Which is just scratching the surface if you’re looking for bawdy Shakespeare. Honestly, his work is chockablock full of dirty puns. What can I say, The Bard was popular with the people and the people have always loved a good dick joke. Literature! ;-)


End file.
